


Amity

by RenGoneMad



Category: Naruto
Genre: Anbu Yamato | Tenzou, Bodyswap, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Hatake Kakashi is Bad at Feelings, Jutsu Gone Wrong, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Fourth Shinobi War, Rokudaime Hatake Kakashi, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:56:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27633068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RenGoneMad/pseuds/RenGoneMad
Summary: “I thought about using it.” Kakashi’s words cut, sharp and immediate.There was no need to ask if Kakashi meant for the good of Konoha or himself: guilt didn’t suit Tenzō’s features—not when Kakashi was behind them.“What would you have done?” Tenzō breathed.“In reality? Nothing. I wouldn’t have.” Kakashi’s voice lowered. He took a step forward. “But in my fantasy?”Tenzō had always run hotter between them, and now the heat emanating from Kakashi within his body—only a few inches away—was enough to sear.“I’m selfish,” Kakashi whispered. “I would have become someone you would want.”
Relationships: Hatake Kakashi & Yamato | Tenzou, Hatake Kakashi/Yamato | Tenzou
Comments: 22
Kudos: 107





	Amity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NKI_Stories](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NKI_Stories/gifts).



> Happy birthday, Nina!! You're an amazing person and friend, and I'm so glad I met you. You deserve all the happiness in the world and more. Thank you for being you. <3 I made this out of a lot of things I know you love, so. x'D Here's hoping you like it.
> 
> booleanWildcard was the absolutely fantastic beta for this story, and I seriously can't express how much better this story is because of it. <3

Tenzō had never been slow to wake; it wasn’t an option in the field, and back in Root, not even Konoha had meant certain safety. However, he also had a grounded mind that rarely strayed into the realms of dreams or nightmares—meaning that he awoke alert, but calm. 

Not this time.

Tenzō came to with a strong surge of vertigo, a deep instinct screaming that something wasn’t right, and the distinct sensation that he was underground. There wasn’t enough air in his lungs, and the atmosphere was heavy in the stale, overused way of confined spaces. Muscles tensing, he nearly moved before his brain came back online, at least well enough to remind him how stupid that was without more information.

He was laying face down, his nose buried in a bubble of air within something soft. Fabric? Not a normal floor of any sort, at least, indoors or out. He threw out his senses and detected no one in his immediate proximity, except for a very faint shimmer of chakra somewhere many stories above him. Either he truly wasn’t in his cabin, or there was an ANBU-grade shinobi floating in the middle of thin air. 

Both options were equally plausible.

Ambient noise was at an extreme minimum, and with his face covered, he had no hope of figuring out where he was without moving. Carefully, he tested his range of motion and muscle strength, making the smallest movements possible. His body felt heavy and sluggish, like his limbs were weighed down or he’d foolishly tried to keep up with one of Gai and Kakashi’s competitions, but it didn’t seem he was physically restrained. Tenzō turned his head just enough to gain access to fresh air, but he couldn’t smell anything. 

That was alarming. 

One hand was curled loosely, very close to his face. Tenzō wiggled his fingers over a bit and found a hem. He caught it with his fingernails and tugged, pulling cloth down his nose and over his chin. His fingers scratched against rough skin, but he felt no pain indicating he had been burned. 

Scents were back, but Tenzō still couldn’t identify anything in particular: just dust and something faintly spicy—or was it citrus? 

Tenzō rotated his body just enough to nudge the outside of his thigh into the mattress. His kunai was still in its holster. 

Well, if he had been left armed, then it was unlikely he was in extreme and immediate danger upon waking. Tenzō’s abdominal muscles strained with the effort of pulling himself up to a seated position, but he did it, being careful not to hit his head on a possibly low ceiling. Only then did he open his eyes.

Rather, he _attempted_ to open his eyes.

The right one opened with ease, but the left struggled, opening a millisecond after its twin. Although there was again no pain, it felt sluggish and out-of-sync, like that eyelid simply wasn’t accustomed to functioning at the same time as the other. 

Before Tenzō could decide to examine his own condition further, his sight caught up to his brain. What he saw froze him solid.

The room around him was starkly furnished, with old wooden items that could have been in the large bedroom for nearly a hundred years. The only dim source of light was a lamp with a crooked shade, tilted so that the light reflected off the wall and diffused subtly into the room rather than into the eyes of the occupants (of which there was only Tenzō).

Apart from that lamp, only the desk, nightstand, and bookcases seemed used. The first and last were piled to the brim with books and papers. Two photographs sat in frames on the bedside table, though it was too dark to easily make out the portrait’s faces. 

Tenzō knew who they were, even without seeing a thing.

The Rokudaime’s robe and hat hung carelessly over the back of the desk’s chair. The single-sized bed was of Tenzō’s construction, formed from his own chakra after Kakashi complained that the Hokage’s bed was too large to fit his shuriken-print comforter. Tenzō had been laying on top of the neatly-made coverlet, nose buried in a plush seam. A blank scroll lay haphazardly near the foot of the bed.

This was the Hokage Residence.

Inhaling deeply in a search for the calmer head of his that normally prevailed, Tenzō looked down at his body, hoping to at least discover which identity he wore at the moment, as he couldn’t remember exactly what he had been doing before he must have fallen unconscious. Who he spoke to first would depend on whether he was Cat, or Yamato, or—

Something else entirely. 

His abnormally pale fingers lightened abruptly into alabaster at the knuckles. Unfamiliar black sweatpants were a little loose on slender hips, as if he had recently lost a few pounds. The sleeveless black undershirt reminded Tenzō of what he wore for his ANBU uniform, but it looked wrong somehow. The proportions were all slightly off, like looking through a thin layer of water. 

Tenzō lifted a hand to rub at his eyes. If that failed, he would search for a head wound, then use a chakra flare to call the ANBU stationed on the roof—

Tenzō sucked in a sharp breath. Slowly, he uncurled his fist, running loose fingertips over his left cheek.

A long scar, straight and healed, bisected his brow and continued down through his eyelid. It felt deep enough to have massacred the tissue, but Tenzō could see just fine.

Almost as if his current eye was a replacement.

Heart pounding, Tenzō turned his head and stared down at the faded red swirl on his left bicep. 

That tattoo was what stabbed the senbon in the proverbial jugular. 

Tenzō had seen that swirl every day for nearly five years—and only thrice in the last ten. 

He knew the way that mark had faded over time. He knew the nearly imperceptible scar that still existed as a thin line marring the broadest point of the ANBU’s symbol. It had been given by a tanto that Tenzō still regretted being too slow to stop. He knew the strength behind that tattoo, had watched for the last year as Kakashi struggled to _keep_ that strength despite tonnes of paperwork and the lives of millions on his shoulders, weighing him down in a way that ration bars and soldier pills and kunais to the gut never had.

This was the Hokage Residence, alright—and Tenzō was the Hokage.

With shaky fingers, he pulled up the fabric that had bunched at his throat. There was enough to reach past where his own turtleneck would sit at his chin, reaching all the way up to the bridge of his nose. 

As Tenzō secured it there, his knuckles brushed his cheek. This time, Tenzō identified the texture as stubble—at least five days worth of growth, if Tenzō was judging by his own rate. He had no clue how quickly Kakashi’s grew in. 

He _shouldn’t_ know; Kakashi didn’t want him to.

Kakashi wouldn’t want any of this.

Kakashi had lived his entire life for others—or at least he had since Tenzō had known him, but it was impossible to imagine a Kakashi that didn’t put others before himself. Whether it was the physical burden of carrying the sharingan, a kekkei genkai unbelonging to him, one that drained his life force with every breath he took; or taking on a position that he loathed with every fibre of this being, because he was the only one capable of doing it—Kakashi was always selfless. 

There was only one part of himself that Kakashi had managed to protect for his own sake—one safe haven that he defended against all bombardments—and Tenzō had believed he always would until his dying breath: 

His true face. 

Tenzō had also made an oath. He had sworn himself to it back when he was just a teenager with a cracking voice and no name of his own.

He vowed to protect his village, his comrades, and his friends. 

Less than a year later, Tenzō had created an addendum for one more category: those he loved. 

Only one person had ever fit in that one. Kakashi had created that role, defined it—and Tenzō had long since accepted that he always would. 

Tenzō would stand beside Kakashi, even if the fires of hell licked at their feet. 

Tenzō would stand beside Kakashi, even if it meant facing away from the secret he yearned to hold.

Tenzō would stand beside Kakashi, even if the only force that threatened Kakashi was Tenzō himself. 

Standing, Tenzō fought against the burn in his muscles, fatigue weighing them down. Although Kakashi no longer had the sharingan to drain chakra passively (and wasn’t Tenzō particularly glad for that, given his current predicament), his reserves had never been particularly large; what shone was his skill in using what he did have. But whatever Kakashi had done that day while Tenzō was off-duty, he had used far more chakra than he should have. 

It also, apparently, had switched their bodies. 

At least, Tenzō hoped they had been switched—if he had merely taken over Kakashi’s body and was unintentionally suppressing the Hokage’s consciousness in some way, then they were in even more trouble than Tenzō thought.

His first order of business, then, was to find his own body and ascertain whether Kakashi was inside of it. Alerting anyone to the situation before learning that much would be pointless and potentially compromising, when he had no knowledge of if this was an inside plot, a jutsu gone wrong, or an attempt at a political assassination.

Figuring out where Kakashi kept his gloves and other accoutrement wouldn’t have been difficult, but he had no chance to try. When Tenzō turned, intending to open the bedside drawer to check for a utility belt, he came face to face with a very familiar mask of porcelain and stripes. 

For a long moment, Tenzō stared into empty black sockets, blocked from seeing his own dark eyes by the standard jutsu in place to conceal the presence of dojutsu. Then Tenzō forced himself to look over the rest of the body crouched on the outer windowsill, taking in familiar brown hair and a broad chest beneath the armored ANBU vest.

Perhaps the moment should have felt more unusual, but Tenzō was accustomed to dealing with his own wood clones. What was far more pressing than Tenzō’s body itself (although he was relieved it was apparently alive) was determining for certain the current inhabitant of it.

The current owner of Tenzō’s body raised one hand and made five short signs—ones that Tenzō hadn’t used in far too many years. 

A heavy breath escaped Tenzō as he signed the other half of the simple code. Kakashi waved to the window and Tenzō stepped forward to unlock it. As soon as it opened, Kakashi slid inside with one smooth motion, landing more gracefully and silently than Tenzō likely would have while controlling the same musculature.

 _Of course_ Kakashi’s flexibility and skillset somehow translated to another body entirely. _Of course_ Lithe sensuality was core to Kakashi’s personality, rather than his physical form.

“Was it an attack?” Tenzō asked in Kakashi’s smooth baritone. He nearly flinched at the sound. The voice was right, but the intonation was all wrong, heavy and blunt in a way that Kakashi’s never was. 

Kakashi flew through a few more seals, ones recognizable as a silencing jutsu. Tenzō felt the strange swell of his own chakra from a foreign body before the bubble burst, chakra settling undetectably in the corners and walls of the room. 

“Nope. And we’re going to have to work on how you speak.” Kakashi sighed, reaching up to scratch at the back of his neck and slouching in a way that dramatically decreased Tenzō’s natural height. “You don’t sound like me at all.” 

“You sound like me when I’m concussed and on the second dose of pain meds,” Tenzō replied starkly, crossing his arms over his chest. It pulled slightly at a tender ligament in his shoulder, an injury Tenzō had never gotten. “You don’t know how to reverse this, then?”

“I don’t think we’ll need to; it should wear off on its own. We just have to lay low until we revert.” Kakashi knelt down to pick up the scroll Tenzō had noticed on the floor, unrolling it between fully-gloved fingers. He had donned Tenzō’s entire ANBU ensemble, from forearm guards to ninjatō.

Even now, Kakashi couldn’t go without a mask.

“‘Lay low’?” Tenzō repeated dully, raising a dubious brow. “Even if it wasn’t an enemy attack, we still have to treat this as a major security breach. Ino—” 

Tenzō cut himself off before he could finish the name. 

ANBU worked closely enough with the Intelligence Division that it was still a habit sometimes to refer to Inoichi or Shikaku. 

They had lost so many in that single week.

Tenzō cleared his throat. “We should speak to a Yamanaka, or Tsunade-sama.”

“I already have, in a way.” Kakashi carefully rolled the parchment and placed it in a desk drawer. Tenzō couldn’t see the seal Kakashi formed, but could feel the brief flicker of chakra once more. “But you can ask her to take a look at us when she returns if you’d like. It’ll be at least a week.” 

Tenzō sucked in a deep breath, letting it out through his mouth as he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. The edges of his fingers brushed smooth cloth. Tenzō finally gave into the fatigue of his body and sat back on the bed, bouncing slightly on the springy mattress. “How long exactly are we talking about here?” 

There was no response. After a moment, Tenzō glanced up. It was impossible to tell Kakashi’s expression behind the mask, but Tenzō could feel eyes on him.

Oh.

Tenzō dropped his hand to rest limply on his thigh. “I didn’t look—below the mask.” 

Kakashi watched him for a second longer before facing the window without comment. “Maa, it shouldn’t be more than a week at the most. I would guess closer to a couple of days.”

That was a relief, but still far from a solution to their problem. “We need to inform the rest of my team. Even if this isn’t an attack, it still puts you at risk. Until we’ve tested our capabilities in each other’s bodies, we have to assume that we won’t be able to fight at even half our usual efficiency. If my team moves to protect me believing I have the Rokudaime’s jutsu, then—”

“It could cause them to make poor decisions, I know,” Kakashi interrupted, folding his arms over his chest and leaning back against the desk. “We can’t risk this getting out, though, for the same reason. There would never be a better time for an assassination attempt than now.” 

“Well.” Tenzō frowned, a little insulted even though he’d had the same thought only minutes earlier. “I doubt I’m much worse now than you in your chakra-depleted states. Speaking of which, what were you _doing_ today?”

Kakashi rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. It was strange for Tenzō to see that familiar gesture on his own body. “Maa, I might have overdone it a bit in training today. If you eat a ration bar, you’ll feel almost normal by tonight.”

“Tonight,” Tenzō echoed. He could still feel the presence of the ANBU stationed far above them. Who was on duty tonight? Haruda and Washi? It had to be Haruda that he sensed. Tenzō needed to force a refresher on chakra dampening on that kid. “We still need to tell at least a few members of the guard. I can’t see them not noticing for very long, anyway. There’s no way they could watch me for an entire day and not realize something was wrong. Or, if they do, I might just have to kick them back to the Academy,” he added in an undertone. 

“Then tell a couple—Yūgao should be one—and change the schedule if you have to. You were set to guard me in a few hours, but we’ll need to stay in close proximity for the entire duration of this jutsu, in case there’s a crisis and people start asking for orders from you.” Kakashi’s tone settled into the crisp one he took when there were dangers in the field; it wasn’t dissimilar from Tenzō’s, when using the same vocal chords. “Assign an extra guard to work from a distance, and by all appearances Cat will be playing the close guard. We’ll play that out for today and I can give you the guidance you need while you meet with the Council and pretend to be me for a few hours.”

“Meet with the _Council_?” Tenzō’s alarm took Kakashi’s voice to a pitch it had likely never reached before. “I’m not going to pretend to be the Rokudaime to meet with the Council! I won’t know what to say, I’ll—”

“It’s not that hard.” Kakashi shrugged. Tenzō was certain he could hear a smile. “Just find a way to say no to everything they ask, without ever saying the actual word. That’s what I do. Now, teach me any codes or hand signs for your current team.”

Kakashi had never been an easy person to read, even disregarding literal masks. He could talk around subjects so well that oftentimes people never realized he had failed to give a single piece of actual information. His tone of voice had only three distinct modes—lazy, reflective, and sharp—and Tenzō had sewn together ripped tatters of Kakashi’s flesh without receiving more than harsh breathing and a clenched jaw. 

The only indication that Kakashi considered him a friend, rather than merely an old comrade and subordinate, was the frequency with which Kakashi had harassed him over the years. 

After leaving ANBU, Tenzō had come home at least once a month to his senpai lounging on his couch with pilfered fruit, or skimming one of Tenzō’s books. Comments about Tenzō’s boring taste in literature and general poking and prodding generally ensued before Kakashi slinked back out a window, disappearing into the night with moonlight bathing his form.

Perhaps Tenzō had watched Kakashi leave more than strictly necessary.

But after over fifteen years of knowing Hatake Kakashi, Tenzō could read his senpai fairly well; though it was translated a bit strangely through body language not his own, it wasn’t hard to tell:

Kakashi enjoyed being Tenzō. 

More accurately, Tenzō supposed, he enjoyed being _Cat_. Tenzō doubted it was nostalgia for his lost ANBU years that caused the chipper mood. However, taking a day off as Hokage (even if Kakashi was subtly guiding him from the shadows with nearly imperceptible bursts of chakra and signs in a language they had developed back when they had need for such things), seemed like more than enough reason. 

This good mood was evident in the way Kakashi’s shoulders sometimes relaxed a touch, and the jaunty, invisible waves he directed at anyone who entered the office. 

Sakura, being more perceptive than most, blinked confusedly at the corner for a few moments after entering. Kakashi and Tenzō froze, holding their breaths.

Eventually, she shook her head and continued her sentence, dropping off a stack of folders from the hospital on Kakashi’s desk. 

Tenzō’s desk—for the moment. 

Tenzō had seen Kakashi deal with the Council often enough that he knew they weren’t the sort of people he wanted to have tea with. 

After a single day in Kakashi’s shoes—literally and metaphorically—he was about ready to order their beheading. 

When the door closed behind them, Tenzō sighed heavily, massaging his temples as he slumped forward with his elbows on the desk. He’d managed to wear the hat for around an hour before giving it up. Either Kakashi had a particularly sweaty scalp, or more likely, the material was made for appearance rather than breathability. At least he still had the robe on, which was more than could be said for Kakashi a few hours into the workday. 

He felt a faint shimmer of his own chakra as Kakashi’s cloaking jutsu dropped, but he didn’t look up to see Kakashi’s approach until a gloved hand settled on his shoulder.

“Having fun yet, Hokage-sama?” 

“You don’t have to sound so happy about it,” Tenzō groaned. “This isn’t going to work much longer, senpai. Neither of us are going to be able to play these parts without drawing suspicion. We dodged a shuriken because Sakura was too busy to stay and chat.”

“I think I have you down pretty well, actually.” Kakashi disagreed lightly. Tenzō glanced over to see him standing with feet apart, arms crossed loosely over his chest. Tenzō had to admit, he had the posture down better than Tenzō did. It had taken him at least an hour to get Kakashi’s lazy slump, and even then it was due to natural fatigue. Maybe that was why Kakashi did it at all. If Tenzō had to try to imitate Kakashi’s fighting style, or the fluid sensuality he used when approaching a target—

Tenzō closed his eyes, pressing his fingers into them until he saw spots.

“You’re right,” Kakashi murmured suddenly.

Tenzō reluctantly glanced up. Kakashi’s tone betrayed nothing. “About what?” 

“We can’t keep doing this. Among other things, you nearly agreed to a meeting with the Ambassador from Suna.”

“Of course. Why did you say not to?” Tenzō had made far too many decisions in the last few hours based on vague gestures and laconic sign language. “It’s in three weeks. If you’re right, you’ll be back in the control of this body by then.”

“Shikamaru’s on an extended mission for another month.” Tenzō craned his neck to see Kakashi giving a shrug. “He’s the only one who can deal with Temari. She doesn’t seem to like me for some reason.” Kakashi squeezed Tenzō’s shoulder, spreading warmth through his chest, before walking towards the door. “Come on, I have something else in mind for us to do.”

“We can’t go walking around Konoha!” Tenzō whispered frantically, though he rushed to follow. “There’s no way I can fool people in casual interactions for very long.”

“Trust me,” Kakashi looked back at him. Although Tenzō couldn’t see it, he felt the smirk that accompanied his next words. “That won’t be a problem.”

* * *

“A wig,” Tenzō deadpanned. 

“And more.” Kakashi pulled a small rectangular case out of the duffle bag, setting it on the bathroom counter. Within moments it was joined by several more small containers, at least a few of which Tenzō strongly suspected were makeup. 

“Senpai, if you’re looking for a disguise, we could just use henges—”

“With your current chakra levels?” Kakashi asked, standing up and leaning around Tenzō to open the medicine cabinet above the sink. 

Tenzō caught his own silver-haired, masked reflection in the mirror on the door. Kakashi, on the other hand, had removed his ANBU mask as soon as they got into the bathroom of Kakashi’s apartment for which he apparently still paid rent despite living full-time in the Hokage Residence.

Somehow, Kakashi was just as difficult to read with Tenzō’s face as when his own was half-covered. 

“You don’t even have the sharingan anymore, and you’re still depleting your chakra all the time.” Tenzō grumbled. It turned into a frown when Kakashi pulled out a full straight-razor shaving kit. “I shaved yesterday. Why do you need to shave again?”

“Maa, I don’t; you do.” Kakashi pulled the straight-razor out of its case. It reflected the harsh bathroom fluorescents with a deadly gleam.

Tenzō mulled that sentence over for a second. “No, I’m still lost. Are you referring to our bodies, or—”

Kakashi smiled. 

It was only a half-smile, a crook of lips on one side. On anyone else, it would have barely counted as a smile at all.

It stole Tenzō’s breath away. 

It didn’t even matter if it was Tenzō’s body—Tenzō’s plain, ordinary, familiar, mouth. 

It was still _Kakashi_ who smiled.

Tenzō stared until Kakashi’s hand landed warm and firm against his cheek. Tenzō realized what was happening only a moment before Kakashi hooked his fingers into the cloth mask. Unhesitatingly, he pulled it down to bunch at Tenzō’s throat. 

“What—” Tenzō rasped. 

“I haven’t used this identity for a long time,” Kakashi murmured, eyes darting around the short stubble that Tenzō had felt before knowing who he was that day. “Sukea’s left contact was opaque to reduce chakra drain from the sharingan, so you won’t be able to use them now. The rest should work, though, and the color was close enough to mine that it shouldn’t be noticeable even if you run into someone who met him before.” 

“Sukea?” Tenzō repeated dumbly. If Kakashi had this disguise down well enough to refer to it in the third-person, then it was either one he had used multiple times, or one leftover from an undercover mission. Given the foolish breach of secrecy that the latter would have been… “You’ve used this around Konoha?” Tenzō’s eyes widened as further implications sank in. “With,” —Tenzō waved a hand vaguely towards where the mask had sat— “your face exposed?” 

“A few times.” Kakashi eyed Tenzō carefully. “Lies are always easiest when they’re close to the truth.” 

Tenzō’s stomach lurched. 

His eyes almost flickered towards the mirror before he stopped himself, catching only a glimpse of silver in his periphery. His fingers twitched, itching to rise up and feel the strong jaw and smooth lips that felt overexposed in the stagnant air of the bathroom. He flexed his fingers into a fist instead. 

“Have I ever met you as Sukea?”

Kakashi slipped his hands into his pockets. He leaned against the sink, body and eyes angling to the far wall. 

“No, you haven’t,” he murmured softly. “I’ve been careful. Team Seven and Gai did; they didn’t recognize me, but we’ll avoid them. Asuma, too; I think he knew.” 

Kakashi stopped there. He didn’t have to continue. Tenzō knew what came next: ‘But dead men tell no tales.’

Except, of course, for when they did.

Tenzō looked down at his hand. He imagined his knuckles were white, bled of color, beneath the fingerless gloves. Sharp nails dug into the meat of his palm, only the cloth keeping them from cutting into skin.

Emotions mixed noxiously in Tenzō’s stomach, trickling through his veins like adrenaline, until he could feel them in his heart and lungs and the soles of his feet.

Jealousy, grief, and _relief_.

Jealousy, because so many had seen what Kakashi had kept hidden for years, and yet they had never appreciated the wonder of it. They had been privileged to see his chin, his lips, the delicate line of his throat—all of which had plagued many of Tenzō’s most sleepless nights. Those strangers had seen a smile curve on lips that belonged to Kakashi alone. Perhaps someone had even tasted them. 

Tenzō hadn’t.

Grief, because so much had been taken from them over the years. They had lost friends and comrades, but also pieces of themselves. Kakashi hadn’t hidden his face with neurotic expertise for nearly thirty years due to a whim; he wouldn’t have revealed it for one, either. Perhaps he’d had a reason that served a greater purpose.

But, to do it multiple times—Kakashi had found something he desired in the guise of Sukea, and the position of Hokage had taken that release away from him by adding watchful eyes to every move he made.

Finally, _relief_ : it spread like a cool mist across his skin, soothing the scorching heat of fear—because Tenzō _hadn’t_ seen what so many others had. He hadn’t walked past Kakashi in a crowd, unseeing and uncaring. He hadn’t taken such a sacred privilege for granted. He hadn’t been so close to the person who defined Tenzō’s concept of love, and honor, and loyalty—and not recognized him for who he was. 

To have a gift stolen back before ever realizing it was there—Tenzō would rather have never had it at all. 

Kakashi must have seen the disruption making jagged pieces of Tenzō’s mental ground, but he left Tenzō to sort the rubble in peace. That, or he was consumed by a struggle of his own. Instead of speaking, Kakashi wet the shaving brush and swirled it in circles within the cream, thoroughly coating each bristle. 

Then, he held it out—with the handle facing Tenzō. 

He stared at it for seconds, unmoving, before lifting his gaze to Kakashi. 

The features that Kakashi inhabited told Tenzō little; reading his own face without his habits and experiences behind it was far different than interacting with a wood clone. Clones shared his past and present, shared fears and joys. 

Now, Tenzō could see the faint tension in the corners of Kakashi’s eyes that betrayed—uncertainty? Apprehension?—but everything else was a blank slate. 

“You can look.” Kakashi finally said.

Tenzō’s confused stare dropped down to the laden brush, then to Kakashi again. A frisson of anticipation ran through him, curling in his stomach and urging him to lift his hand, to say yes, to take the offer and see everything—

Tenzō’s excitement crumbled to dust.

He stepped back.

“No.”

Kakashi raised one too-dark brow.

Within a second his expression reset to a guardedness that it could have never had under Tenzō’s control. 

“No?”

“No.” Tenzō repeated, more firmly. 

Kakashi’s fingers closed around the handle of the brush, but his hand didn’t drop. “You don’t want to see?”

An inner voice screamed at Tenzō, telling him he was wasting his only opportunity, his one chance—

“No.” Tenzō didn’t waver. He shook his head. “Not like this.” 

Tenzō opened his mouth to continue, then closed it. He took a moment to organize his thoughts before speaking once more. 

“It isn’t necessary. According to you, we’re only going to be like this for a few more days. I’ll wear the disguise—but I won’t look in the mirror.” Tenzō’s worries tumbled over themselves, jumbling into a chaotic mess he was desperately trying to sort. “I can’t avoid all reflections, but I can try. I’ll—”

A warm palm covered his lips.

Tenzō’s instincts never triggered; his muscles never tensed. 

Kakashi had always had the power to bypass Tenzō’s defenses, but he had only ever used it when it mattered the least. 

Now, it mattered. 

Kakashi’s brow was furrowed, but emotion rang clearly in his voice; it held a tremulous edge, a violin string pulled taut. “Like what?”

Tenzō drew in a shaky breath. His lungs filled with the scents of mint and dust and something else—it didn’t matter what, because it was _wrong_. His brain told him that his senses were lying, that it should be Kakashi’s unique dog-and-cedar scent, _Kakashi’s_ gloved hand, _Kakashi’s_ — 

What was Kakashi asking?

Apparently disinclined to move his hand, Kakashi took the confusion he must have seen in Tenzō’s eyes as question enough. 

“You said ‘not like this’,” Kakashi elaborated, leaning in so closely that he must have felt his own warm breath on the back of his knuckles. “So how do you want it to be?”

Tenzō’s heart pounded thunderously in his ears. He felt the loose fabric of the mask briefly constrict around his throat as he swallowed. 

Reaching up, Tenzō wrapped pale fingers around the hand at his mouth. Kakashi watched, motionless, as Tenzō guided their hands to rest between them. 

There was no reason to say anything, no reason to peel himself open for Kakashi to see. 

_Reason_ didn’t matter, though—not when it was Kakashi. It never had.

Tenzō could think of a hundred ways he had imagined seeing Kakashi—some of them were even honorable—but there was really only one answer that encompassed all of that, which held true in every single fantasy and dream and genjutsu and hope for the future. 

“How and when you would have wanted to do it.”

Kakashi’s lips twitched, a wry smile that wouldn’t have reached his eyes even as himself. “That’s right.” His next, quiet words carried weight, but no bitterness. “You’ve always been a better person than me.”

The statement shouldn’t have been surprising, after years of knowing Kakashi’s self-deprecating tendencies. Tenzō’s most honest answer was once more drawn forth. “No, I’m not.”

Kakashi might as well have not heard him. 

Sometimes, in these moments of silence, Tenzō thought that was literally true; Kakashi’s memories had a tendency to override his present, settling him into an abyss that only he could see. His hand remained loosely clasped in Tenzō’s—either unnoticed, or unbothered by it. 

Tenzō waited until Kakashi resurfaced. It happened slowly, his pupils focused on the tiled wall instead of infinity.

“The jutsu we’re under was developed by Minato-sama,” he said quietly and stoically. It reminded Tenzō of his senpai’s demeanor when reciting written information recalled by the sharingan; half there and half not, parsing remembered information and reordering it to be digestible by another’s mind. “At least partially. He, his wife, and the head of the Yamanaka Clan were working on improving the Mind Transfer jutsu for use in espionage and assassination.”

That might have been the first thing in over twelve long hours that actually made sense. 

“They were hoping to use the Yondaime’s Space-Time ninjutsu to mark a target from a distance,” Kakashi continued, “and Kushina-san’s knowledge of fūinjutsu to prevent the minds from returning to their original bodies until one party completed a jutsu to break the seal.”

The timing was odd, but Tenzō wasn’t one to nitpick about that when he was finally receiving a real explanation. “The full switch instead of a simple transfer is due to the length of time they expected a Konoha spy to inhabit the other body,” Tenzō extrapolated. An unpleasant sensation crawled up his spine as he considered the ramifications if they had attempted that jutsu without the full modification. “If the target’s consciousness was left separated from the body and chakra for too long…”

“The Konoha shinobi’s body could become brain dead before the mind was able to find its way back.” Kakashi agreed, jaw set. His fingers squeezed briefly, reflexively, in Tenzō’s grip.

This time, Tenzō knew exactly what his senpai was thinking.

The Hyuuga’s technique to close chakra points, when used without restraint on the main networks leading to the brain and left untreated—to call it a coma would be to say the Fourth Shinobi War was a minor inconvenience.

“I found the scroll and accompanying notes in one of the Sandaime’s safestores,” Kakashi didn’t go into details on any practical tests the Yamanaka’s might have done, and Tenzō didn’t ask. “They weren’t able to perfect the duration of the seal or the precise activation before the Kyuubi attack, so the jutsu was never put into common use.”

Another piece clicked into place. The first thing Tenzō saw after sitting up, the only thing in the bedroom that was more disorderly than Kakashi’s usual—was a blank scroll at the foot of the bed. 

The same scroll that Kakashi had sealed away without explanation. 

“I didn’t do this on purpose,” Kakashi continued calmly, accurately anticipating Tenzō’s conclusions. “The ink must have grown unstable, because the small spark of chakra I used to open the seal shouldn’t have been enough to open it. I’m guessing the jutsu chose you as the closest residual source of chakra apart from the caster.” Kakashi finally glanced towards him. At Tenzō’s expression, he elaborated: “my bed.” 

The one Tenzō had created himself.

That explained the circumstances—but not Kakashi’s present actions. It didn’t explain the defensive curve to his shoulders, the cool sweat that moistened his palm where it rested against Tenzō’s, the secrecy regarding the jutsu from the beginning… Tenzō shook his head slightly. “It was reckless to use chakra to open a seal without a containment barrier in place, but I don’t—”

Kakashi’s words cut, sharp and immediate. “I thought about using it.”

No, perhaps they didn’t cut so much as deal a heavy blow, with enough blunt force to knock the air from Tenzō’s lungs and punch a hole through his stomach.

There was no need to ask if Kakashi meant for the good of Konoha or himself: the former would have been a decision based on logic, based on pros and cons and research, of weighing the odds between morality and success rates and necessity—no doubt the same process that the Yondaime himself had gone through at the time of its inception.

It wasn’t logic that plagued Kakashi now.

Guilt didn’t suit Tenzō’s features—not when Kakashi was behind them.

For a moment, Tenzō thought of the Kakashi he had seen for most of the day: the one that was quietly content, the one that sounded like a smile, the one that made jokes behind politician’s backs with long-forgotten codes known only to the two of them. 

For a moment, Tenzō thought that Kakashi would have used the jutsu to give up his reign as Rokudaime, to shift it to someone he believed more suitable without the diplomatic or political ramifications of instituting a new Hokage. 

But that was wrong: if Kakashi believed anyone else had all the qualities necessary to do the job, he would have never stopped campaigning for them. More importantly, he would never subject another to the same hell he was going through. Not again their will.

“What would you have done?” Tenzō breathed, when his thoughts and Kakashi’s self-loathing had taken too many turns for either to find a way out on their own.

Kakashi released Tenzō’s hand, pushing off the sink and turning to face Tenzō. One hand moved as if to run agitatedly through silver locks, but brushed the cold metal of Tenzō’s happuri instead. Kakashi’s arm fell back to his side, but his hand was clasped in a tight fist. 

This time, there _was_ bitterness. It stuck like coffee grounds on the back of Tenzō’s tongue. 

“In reality? Nothing. I wouldn’t have done it.” 

At least Kakashi knew himself that well. At least he wasn’t turning himself into a martyr, ready to set fire to his own pyre.

“In my fantasy?” Kakashi’s voice lowered. He took a step forward. 

Tenzō had always run hotter between them, and now the heat emanating from Kakashi, _only a few inches awa_ y, was enough to sear.

Tenzō couldn’t have looked away from Kakashi’s intensity even if the entirety of Root at its prime were burning down the door. 

“I’m selfish,” Kakashi whispered. It rang like confession a repentant man would give, knowing it sealed his fate to the gallows. “I would have become someone you would want.” 

Tenzō’s world narrowed down to Kakashi, who burned like the Suna sun, blotting and washing out the rest of the landscape until all Tenzō could see was black eyes that should have been charcoal. 

_But really, Tenzō’s could hardly remember a time when Kakashi didn’t encompass Tenzō’s world._

He barely heard what tumbled from Kakashi’s lips next, a promise from a liar: “Just for a night.” 

One night. 

That was never what either of them would want.

Tenzō knew now. 

He knew Kakashi. 

He knew the expression of a man pleading for judgement, begging to be condemned by a higher power because he lacked the will to do it himself—not when something he yearned for was just within reach. 

Tenzō had spent the last decade and more defending Kakashi from the enemy, from the demands of Konoha, from Tenzō himself—he was foolish not to realize sooner:

The only thing Kakashi truly needed protection from was himself. 

The voice Tenzō commanded was not his own, but neither was it Kakashi’s: it was low and hoarse, roughened by adrenaline from the dangerous hope and resolve surging in his chest, crashing together in giant waves that rocked the sea. “What about for more than that?”

The eyes Kakashi possessed also were not his own, but they widened—in shock, and the type of awe that only comes from facing an opponent with the power to crush you. The rest of Kakashi’s features closed off in preparation for the mortal strike he was an idiot to think would come. 

“Tenzō—”

“Kakashi.” Pushing through the space between them, Tenzō stole Kakashi’s hand once more. His other came up to wrap around a strong neck, fingers burying into hairs too dark and short to be right. 

Tenzō encroached on the last of the distance, his lips hovering a breath from ones that he knew all too well, and yet didn’t know at all. 

“Do you want this?” Tenzō asked. 

Simple. It was how they worked when missions went wrong, when hell was on their heels and blood on their hands and the pretty words from a man behind a desk could no longer guide them: reduce the problem. Take it to the basics. What was the mission goal? What was the determiner of success? What was an acceptable sacrifice?

Kakashi’s answer to the last question was always the same, even if he knew better than to voice it as such: Kakashi was an acceptable loss; anyone else was not.

He wouldn’t sacrifice Tenzō out of his own craving for penance. 

“Because I do,” Tenzō finished.

The body that Tenzō now wielded was not his own, but it would do. 

It would have to, because Kakashi was Kakashi, after all—he couldn’t ask for anything, but he could act.

That was all Tenzō had ever asked of him.

The lips that met Tenzō’s were firm and chapped, but their movement was yielding. Kakashi kissed the way he fought: in pushes and pulls, in rising waves and rip-currents, in the aggressive testing of limits and then the subtle nuance as a decision was reached from information gleaned. 

Kakashi was kinetic beauty, and Tenzō had been watching, wanting, fighting beside him, for too many years not to know the dance. 

Kakashi’s palm cupped the curve of Tenzō’s neck. He knew Kakashi must have felt Tenzō’s rapid-fire pulse in his carotid, over which Kakashi rested his thumb. 

He knew that Kakashi’s was beating just as quickly, even though he had no objective means to quantify it: Tenzō just knew _Kakashi_. 

He knew the way Kakashi’s chest rose and fell with quick inhalations through his nose, even though it was now obscured by the armor of Cat’s ANBU vest. 

He knew the way Kakashi chose caution when going into battle, but that in the end he would recklessly jump towards a shuriken if there was a fraction of a chance he would take it instead of a teammate. 

He knew the way Kakashi’s fingers knotted into anything nearby when he was in excruciating pain—or, as Tenzō had always imagined in his weakest moments, in _ecstatic pleasure_. Now, the hand not resting on Tenzō’s neck was snared in the loose fabric of the Rokudaime’s robe, crinkling once-crisp white that had never been worn long enough to grow soft and familiar and comfortable. 

This kiss wasn’t soft and familiar and comfortable—but _Kakashi_ was. Tenderness backed each scrape of Kakashi’s teeth. Devotion aided the awkward bumping of noses as much as it did the warm press of bodies. Passion championed the gentle glide of Kakashi’s tongue. 

The kiss gradually tapered, a bonfire simmering down until only the ashes smoldered, just enough heat lingering to ignite a forest fire if carelessly given the chance.

They didn’t give it the chance.

Kakashi rested his forehead on Tenzō’s shoulder, an act made more comfortable by their reversed heights. His palms smoothed down Tenzō’s sides, deftly avoiding the areas made sensitive by scar tissue or ticklishness. 

Finally, his forefingers curled into the waistband of Tenzō’s pants, giving a playful tug forward.

“You know, this isn’t how I thought you would get into my pants,” Kakashi mumbled into Tenzō’s neck. 

That forced a snort from Tenzō, the pressure momentarily breaking from the sheer ludicrousness. Tenzō’s shoulders shook with quiet laughter.

The laughter diminished as he became aware of the rigid way Kakashi held himself. His hands rested on Tenzō so lightly they might not be there at all but for the warmth that leached through skin and fabric. 

“You never expected us to get into each other’s pants at all, did you?” Tenzō asked quietly. 

Kakashi stiffened further for a moment. Tenzō didn’t move, holding on to Kakashi in the way he had always wanted.

It was only a physical manifestation of the emotional support that always had been.

Gradually, like falling asleep to the white noise of a heavy rain, Kakashi relaxed. His chin buried snugly into Tenzō’s shoulder and the happuri pressed uncomfortably against Tenzō’s jaw.

It was less painful than letting go. 

“No,” Kakashi murmured. “I didn’t.”

Tenzō closed his eyes, though all he could see was dark brown hair and a tiled wall. “Neither did I.” He hesitated for a moment, a buzzing sensation stinging in his stomach. “If you don’t want more, I—”

“If you need further proof,” Kakashi rumbled, mouth skimming over the thin black shirt. His teeth scraped against a sensitive spot on Tenzō’s collarbone. “I’m happy to provide it.” 

Tenzō shivered. He focused on the heat between their bodies, and was tempted. The weight of Kakashi against him, the feel of Kakashi’s body in his—

It wasn’t Kakashi’s body at all. 

“Damn it,” Tenzō groaned, pulling back to put a few inches of space between them, making it a bit easier to breathe again. “I don’t think you can when we look like this.” 

The Hokage pulled back as well, just enough to raise an eyebrow and look down at the body Kakashi was currently occupying. “Are you sure? I think I look pretty damn good right now.” 

“You—” Heat suffused Tenzō’s cheeks, burning all the way to the back of his neck. “Thanks, but it’s kind of disconcerting for me.” 

Kakashi hummed thoughtfully. “Maa, there’s always henges.”

That was an idea—a ridiculous one that Tenzō had to be insane to consider for even a moment. He sighed, covering his face with his palm. The still-present stubble scraped his fingers. He hoped his body wouldn’t have beard-burn when he got it back.

“And what about you?” Tenzō pointed out, he thought rather reasonably. “The whole reason we’re here is because you depleted your chakra beyond recommended limits yesterday. A henge could confine you to bed for a day.”

For a second, Kakashi seemed swayed by that argument. Then he trailed his gaze from disheveled silver hair, down the entirety of Tezou’s current body, leaving a trail of electricity that Tenzō felt in its wake. Kakashi gave a casual shrug. “I think I could live with it.”

The heat spread up to his ears. “I—I genuinely have no idea if you’re joking or not, senpai.” 

A wicked grin curved Kakashi’s mouth. 

If it were on Kakashi’s body, it might have been enough to dissolve Tenzō’s willpower then and there. 

Kakashi’s smirk faded. The guarded expression didn’t return, but he fell to pensieve. 

“Do you want to see me now?”

Tenzō hesitated.

A brief flash of excitement sung in his blood, a faint echo of the furor that had filled him before.

Logically, Tenzō had already kissed using Kakashi’s mouth— _seeing_ it shouldn’t have made a huge difference.

But it would.

“Not now.” Tenzō denied. The decision was disappointing, but he held firm. “Wait until you can show me yourself. Tomorrow, or the next day—whenever this wears off—show me.”

Kakashi watched him closely, taking a half-step closer. His lips pressed into a thin, wary line.

This time, there was a hint of hope behind it. 

“How much of me do you want to see?”

Tenzō finished closing the gap that Kakashi had left. He raised a pale hand to Kakashi’s cheek, cupping it gently. The skin and bones beneath it were Tenzō’s—but the person who leaned into his touch, whose eyes drooped to half-lidded… that was Kakashi alone. 

“As much as you want me to.”

Kakashi placed his hand over Tenzō’s, palm resting on the engraving of the Konoha leaf—the only symbol that remained the same between them, connecting bodies and minds and purpose. 

Kakashi’s response was barely a whisper: 

“Everything.”

Tenzō smiled, lips curving along with his eyes. 

“That’s a lie, Kakashi-senpai—but I’m willing to wait for the rest.” 

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone would like a cool place to talk to Nina and other awesome people about Tenzō (or anything, really), here's a [link to Tenzō's Cabin](https://discord.gg/pFPHY49vJM), a Discord server for all that stuff and more. The only requirements to enter are that you be 18+ and respectful to others. <3


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